


A Self-Sufficient Life

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: AU, Gen, Humour, self-sufficiency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk





	A Self-Sufficient Life

With thanks for the beta & information help to [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/)

3816 words

**“A new neighbour prompts Bodie to look at life a little differently.”**

**AU**

prompted by [The Good Life / Pros crossover post](http://prosfinder.livejournal.com/64236.html)

 

 

**A Self-Sufficient Life**

by Allie

 

 

 

Bodie wasn’t sorry to see the retired colonel move out. As a fellow military man, he’d been rather obliged to be chummy with him, but sometimes Bodie dreaded the attack on his drinks cabinet and hearing stories he already knew by heart. He wished the colonel well, even liked the man when he hadn’t had a few too many, but he found him terribly, terribly boring. Even in golfing, where it was certainly all right to be bored, in fact, perhaps mandatory, Bodie had found him difficult. He was slower than the rest of the party, which would have been all right, if he hadn’t continually made excuses about how bad the conditions were, or how someone had nobbled him with a distracting cough.

Bodie figured his new neighbour couldn’t be any worse.

#

Bodie was tired from his hard day of work, but not physically tired; it had been desk work. Being a security consultant, even for an important firm, tended to be a lot duller than he’d thought it would. It paid enough for his bespoke suits and to go golfing with work colleagues—but the money didn’t make up for everything that went with the job, and golfing had its limitations as an enjoyable pastime.

“Bodie,” called Sandra languidly, holding a drink and standing by the sliding door. “Who is that dreadful little man in your back garden?”

“I don’t have a garden,” Bodie informed her, walking over, sipping his own drink. He slid an arm around her and stared.

Indeed, there was a man on his lawn, bent over, gathering weeds. He had rock-star curly hair and wore ragged jeans and trainers and a striped football shirt that had seen better days.

As Bodie watched, trying not to gape in surprise, the madman straightened, shaking back his hair, grasping two handfuls of weed leaves. He caught sight of Bodie and Sandra through the glass, and a broad smile overtook his face. He raised a hand, filled with greens, and waved. “Hullo!”

“Bloody hell,” said Bodie under his breath as the man trotted over.

“How very... unique,” said Sandra in distasteful tones, retreating.

Bodie stepped forward, pushed the door open, and forced a smile onto his face. One must be polite. As little as he sometimes wanted to be. “Hello.”

“Hullo! I’m your new neighbour.” He gestured over the fence to where the major used to live. It was a small, decorative wooden fence between the two properties. It obviously hadn’t kept this man out.

The man transferred weeds to one hand and offered the other to shake. He had a nice smile, anyway. His eyes didn’t look mad, Bodie was glad to see, glassy or fanatical or utterly strange: just curious and friendly. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked! I just saw all those lovely dandelion greens going to waste, and I thought, Why not have some for supper? I’ve picked most of mine, you see. Unless—oh, do you poison your lawn? I thought you mustn’t, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place.”

“You eat weeds?” asked Bodie incredulously.

“Nature’s garden is stocked with useful plants we call weeds. Most of them have more vitamin and mineral content than shop-bought veg—much less canned veg.”

“And they taste like crap,” said Bodie, extending his hand. “Bodie.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ray Doyle.” Again, that grin—slightly chipped, Bodie saw. A very wide, very white grin. Something had happened to his cheekbone at some point, leaving it uneven. It gave him the look of a tough, injured urchin.

“Welcome to the neighbourhood, Ray Doyle. Would you like a drink?”

“Then you don’t mind about the dandelions?” He held up his handful.

“Wouldn’t dream of arguing with free weeding. And no, I’ve never bothered with chemicals.” He held the door open for Doyle expansively.

Still the man hesitated. “I don’t want to interrupt you. And my shoes aren’t quite clean, I’m afraid. I’ve been digging a garden...”

“Kick them off,” said Bodie, more determined than ever. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

“Oh, ta! It’s quite hard to make your own booze, I’m learning. Haven’t had a decent drink in ages.” Slipping out of his trainers, he headed indoors in his socks. Which appeared, Bodie noted in fascination, to be hand knitted, rather too large, and bright, shocking red.

“You can put those down anywhere,” said Bodie, gesturing dismissively to the weeds. “And tell me how you possibly plan to choke them down, why don’t you?”

Doyle grinned. “It takes some getting used to, I’ll admit. First I boil them...” His voice trailed off, and he faced Sandra. “Hullo! Sorry, am I interrupting...?”

“Not at all,” said Sandra in the cool, emotionless tones of her public school upbringing. “It’s always quite nice to meet the neighbours.” She fixed him with an icy stare and a cold smile.

Behind Doyle’s back, Bodie gave Sandra a hard look. She returned it blandly. “What would you like? Vodka? Martini? Oh, I believe Bodie has some beer in the kitchen, if you prefer.”

Doyle hadn’t taken another step forward. “That sounds nice, thanks,” he said in a quieter voice. “But I’m afraid I just remembered—I left the stove on. Stupid of me. Sorry!” And with that he retreated, nimble-footed and fast, snatching his trainers up from outside the door, slipping them on, and hurrying back to his home. Bodie stared after him, watched as he leapt the fence. Quite irregular!

He turned to Sandra. “What was that about? I invited him in for a drink and you scared him off.”

“He’s worse than the colonel,” she said dismissively, sipping another full drink, with the carefully attention that said she might have passed her limit already. You couldn’t tell from her voice or her hands, but something about her eyes looked a bit gone. Bodie realised, at that moment, he no longer found her cool, untouchable class very appealing. “I think he’s better than the colonel, and I’m going to have a drink with him. I’ll call you a cab. I don’t think you’re fit to drive.”

“William Bodie. If you send me home in a cab...”

“Oh? Not good enough for your highness?” Bodie showed his teeth in a grin.

“You are no gentleman!”

“Didn’t your father already say so?” He reached for the phone.

A few minutes later, nursing a deep inner scowl and no more illusions about maintaining a relationship with the beautiful Sandra (nor wishing to), Bodie made his way across the lawn and the small fence carrying four bottles of beer.

Doyle had already made changes to the colonel’s rather boring back garden. He’d dug up a great deal of ground so far. Several large sacks were lumped nearby, smelling strongly of horse manure.

“Hello?” Bodie picked his way carefully around and over a rake, a shovel, and a hoe strewn haphazardly across the path, grimacing at the safety hazard they created. Once upon a time he’d been a soldier and a damned good one. This man can’t have been. A soldier wouldn’t leave his equipment in such shape.

He knocked at the kitchen door.

A curly head appeared. “Bodie!” His brows rose. “And beer! Sorry, did the missus kick you out?” He accepted one of the beers and held the door open, looking at Bodie cautiously.

“Not the missus,” said Bodie grimly. “And certainly never will be.”

“Ah, sorry.” Doyle tactfully looked elsewhere. “I’m afraid I’m not fully moved in, and there’s only these wooden chairs to sit on, but do take a seat, please.”

Bodie did. The kitchen already seemed different from when it was the colonel’s, though Bodie couldn’t put his finger on why. Something smelled like home.

“Bloody good beer,” Doyle offered.

“Yes.” Bodie drank his in grumpy silence. After a few minutes, he began to register his surroundings a bit more, to look around curiously. “Are those tomato plants growing in an egg carton?” He raised one brow, pointing to the kitchen table.

Doyle nodded proudly. “I sprouted them at my old flat. They’ll be the first thing in my new garden. And I’m going to grow potatoes and cabbage, and I thought I’d grow sprouts, only I hate sprouts.”

“You hate sprouts, but you eat dandelions?”

Doyle shrugged. “No one forced me to eat dandelions when I was a kid! I discovered them on my own.”

Bodie tried to bite back an amused grin. “Ah. Stubborn, are you?”

Doyle’s eyes, his whole face, smiled back faintly, ruefully. He gave a small nod. “Afraid so. You?”

“Sometimes,” admitted Bodie.

“So I suppose you’d refuse to come over here for supper?”

“Dandelion greens?” asked Bodie, raising a brow expressively.

“Amongst other things.” Doyle looked at him hopefully. “Must thank you for the beer, you know.”

“Don’t,” said Bodie. “No more bloody manners today.”

Doyle laughed. “One of those days, is it?” He reached across and gave Bodie a light thump on the arm. “Right. No manners.” He got up and walked to the stove in his red socks, and stirred something that was, indeed, cooking.

“What are you making?” asked Bodie, getting up and joining him.

“Well I brought home some aging veg from work, bought a few bones, and I’m trying to make a stock.”

Bodie sniffed suspiciously. Now that was what he’d been smelling since he came in the house! It was soup (or pre-soup), like his mother used to make, that ubiquitous substance he’d been so very tired of as a boy, which every mother seemed to serve constantly. Today it smelled nostalgic to him, rather tasty. “Yes, I suppose I’ll come over if you’re serving that. Only I’ll bring along some steaks to cook, because some of us don’t live on soup alone.”

“That should be ‘bread alone,’ and I do have some bread,” said Doyle, striding across the kitchen. He returned proudly carrying a very heavy, very dark loaf. He thumped it with his knuckles.

“Stone bread, is it?” Bodie picked it up and hefted. “Bloody hell, there are lighter bricks!”

Doyle’s expression stiffened. “Well don’t eat any, then. It’s actually all right if you just soak it before you eat it.”

“What, in the soup?” Bodie tried a smile, hoping to make amends. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone visiting in such a foul mood. “Come on, Ray. No offence. I’m sure I couldn’t do even that good.”

At last, Doyle gave a rueful grin. “Yeah. All right, so it’s not the best bread ever. I’m improving, I am!”

“I don’t doubt it, sunshine. But I’ll still bring the steak and booze, all right?”

“Well it’s not quite in line with my self-sufficiency and earth-friendly new lifestyle, but I must admit, steak sounds bloody good! Or should that be ‘steaks sound’...?”

Bodie laughed. Much, much better than the colonel.

#

Over steaks and a rather delicious soup, but absolutely no dandelions greens, they talked. They talked till it was nearly dark out and the birds were singing their goodnight songs and the booze was gone, and still they talked.

Bodie found himself for the first time in years willingly talking about some details of his life, and for the first time in what felt like years talking honestly, without worrying about fitting into society or climbing the social ladder.

Doyle flitted from one subject to the next—books, work, life, memories—but most of all, he spoke about his great plans for this place, his own place in the country. He’d been saving for so long for this little patch of what was, to him, paradise, then quit his good job and moved here. He intended to turn it into one big garden and grow most of his own food. Right now he was working at a fruit and vegetable barrow, because life was a bit more expensive than he’d expected, but he hoped to become self-sufficient before the end of next year. He wanted to harvest wild edibles, learn to catch his own game, raise his own chickens, and grow herbs.

The things he wanted to do reminded Bodie of what his grandmother had done from necessity and not from fun. Ray made it sound a lot more interesting than it had been to a young, bored Bodie who just wanted to run away and experience adventure.

But Ray’s eyes shown with the delight and excitement of it.

“So wonderful to escape the city,” were nearly his last words to Bodie that night, yawning and sleepy, as Bodie headed home over the fence.

Doyle had kept the empty bottles. He thought he might brew his own beer someday.

“Goodnight!” called Doyle after him.

“Night,” said Bodie in reply, a little more quietly.

Doyle headed back.

Bodie called, “Hey, don’t trip on the—”

“Ow!”

At the sounds of tripping, clattering, and a thump, not to mention Ray’s cry of pain, Bodie sprang back over the wall, moving as fast and silent as the soldier he’d been, and couched by Doyle’s side. It was quite dark now and only the light from the kitchen showed where he’d fallen.

“All right?” He reached out, hesitant. Instinct had brought him back, that instant worry of a soldier that he could never quite shake. Most blokes would just laugh if someone tripped over a rake, but Bodie couldn’t shake that feeling that if someone fell and cried out, it could mean life or death.

Doyle nodded, biting his lip and massaging his shin. “Pillock.”

“Hey, I didn’t leave the tools lying around!” said Bodie, drawing back.

“No, I meant me. Leaving these out.”

“Come on, I’ll help you pick them up. Have you got a torch? Need a hand indoors?”

“Thanks, no, and I can manage.”

Bodie ignored him and hefted him to his feet, helped him limp into the house. Then he returned, picked up all the gardening tools, propped them against the house, and headed home.

Lying in bed drifting off, something told him Doyle really wasn’t suited for this new life of his, no matter how many books he’d read on the topic. But Bodie couldn’t help rooting for him anyway. It was so nice to meet someone different, someone who didn’t feel the need to align with society’s expectations.

#

“Come golfing with me?” asked Bodie, casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I have to go with my bosses, and we could use a fourth.”

Doyle shook his head. “No, ta. I don’t golf.”

“It’s not that hard. You hit a little ball with a stick and it goes in a hole.”

They looked at each other, and both started to grin.

Taking the piss, Doyle said, “You make sport sound so easy, Bodie. Tell me, how does this thing called ‘football’ work?”

“Well, you kick a ball, and...”

“Riot,” said Doyle, that cheesy grin overtaking his face again. He laughed at his own joke.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a riot!” Bodie smiled tolerantly. “Come on, then, Ray! I helped you with the garden.” He’d spent two hours so far today, dripping in sweat despite the early morning cool, digging and digging by Doyle’s side. At first, Doyle had chattered. Then as he grew tired, he grew grimly quiet. He’d made them both take plenty of breaks to drink water. Afterwards, they’d cooked a full English together and eaten rather a lot of sausages and beans.

Doyle shook his head. “I’d go along if I could, but I’d just embarrass you.”

“I don’t think you ever could,” said Bodie.

Ray blinked at him. Bodie reached across and punched him lightly on the arm and grinned. “Do you knit those horrible socks yourself?” he asked. “In your rocking chair, perhaps?”

The mood change worked. Doyle bristled, “I’ll have you know men used to be the only knitters!”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” said Bodie making a silly face.

“They did! I taught myself over Christmas.”

“That’s really sad. Nothing to do over Christmas but knit yourself socks. Bad ones, at that.” Bodie shook his head in mock pity.

“You watch it.” Doyle pointed a finger at him. “Or guess what you’ll be getting from Father Christmas?”

“Coal?” asked Bodie, grinning. “Or a pair of your socks?”

“Prat. Possibly coal-coloured socks, if you don’t watch it.”

Bodie laughed. He twisted his head at the sound of a car pulling up. “Ah, that’ll be my lift. Sure you won’t...?”

Doyle shook his head. “No, but honestly, best of British, mate. I hope you win.”

“Ah, never hope for that when a man’s playing with his boss and his brother in law!”

“I thought you weren’t—”

“My sister’s married to him. Prat yourself.”

So saying, he shouldered his bag and jogged away. He was still smiling when he reached the car. Until one asked him what was so funny, and another wanted to complain about his sister. That got rid of his smile pretty quickly.

#

I must be going mad, Bodie decided.

Had or hadn’t Ray Doyle said he was staying home? Had he or had he not said he didn’t play golf? He had, hadn’t he?

Well, then why did Bodie keep thinking he was glimpsing a snatch of ragged jeans, dreadful homemade socks, and a mop of brown curls amongst the trees and weeds that edged some of the holes?

There, again! _Probably bloody teenagers._ But a soldier couldn’t doubt his eyes forever; someone was up there rooting around in the brush.

“Excuse me,” said Bodie to his fellow golfers. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bodie,” called his boss. “You’ll slow us down!”

“I said I’ll be right back,” he answered over his shoulder, and strode purposefully towards the brush.

Whoever was playing with his mind deserved a piece of it, and to be sent packing.

Bodie picked his way carefully through the edge of the golf course and the wild bits there, frowning at the thought of brambles, trying not to catch any in his clothes. “What are you doing?”

“Bodie!” A familiar, grinning face popped up in front of him. Doyle was breathing rather hard and had bits of twigs and leaves stuck in his hair.

“Brilliant,” sighed Bodie, reaching out automatically to tug some of them free. The man was messy, there were simply no two ways about it!

He was also chattering. “I thought, after you left, that whilst I couldn’t go golfing, there might be all sorts of things to harvest here, and I could set up some rabbit snares I learned to make...”

“Try not to kill yourself.” Bodie plucked a few more twigs. Doyle winced as he caught a bit of hair, reached up and pushed Bodie away.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well don’t interrupt the game. One of those men is my boss, you know.”

“My boss made me play golf with him, I’d quit!”

“You do that.” Bodie grinned at him. He pointed over Doyle head. “Aren’t those the nettles you wanted?”

With an exclamation of surprise and delight, Ray turned. “Blimey, they’re big. I didn’t know nettles were so big!”

“You learn to recognise them soon enough if you live in the country. Don’t pick them with your hands, all right?”

Doyle nodded, looking preoccupied.

Bodie tried to think if he had something else to say, some other excuse to stay, but he hadn’t. “Right. Well, I’ll see you back home.”

Again, Doyle nodded. “See you.” He pulled on a pair of rather dirty gardening gloves and approached the nettle, pulling a pocket knife out. “I suppose I can put them in my sack. If I get a rabbit, it can go on top.”

“Naturally. Right, I’ll be off.” He walked back.

His boss gave him a disapproving look, made a pointed remark about distractibility.

They were nearly through the hole, when Bodie heard something snap, and then a loud yelp of surprise from Doyle. Without a second’s thought, he dropped his golf club and ran.

“Doyle?” he asked, his voice coming out stressed, that same blasted soldier’s instinct making him think everything was so dreadfully serious.

He found Doyle staring down at a snare, still wearing his gloves, his shoulders drooping, his head bowed. He still wore his dirty gardening gloves and held his pocket knife, but he’d dropped his sack.

“What is it?” asked Bodie. And then he saw. At Doyle’s feet, there lay a snare.

In the snare struggled a rabbit.

“Well, you caught one.”

“I wish I hadn’t now,” said Doyle in a low, rather rough voice. He turned away suddenly, as if he couldn’t stand himself. “Shouldn’t eat meat at all, if I can’t stand to kill it myself. But apparently I can’t.”

Bodie glanced at him, and then at the rabbit. He took the pocket knife gently from Doyle. “Never mind. I’ll do it for you. Cook it too, if you like. Had a nice life, this rabbit, and it’d be a shame to waste it now you have caught it.” He spoke matter-of-factly.

Doyle touched his shoulder. “Don’t. I couldn’t eat it, Bodie.” He took the knife, and cut through the snare, letting the struggling rabbit dash away into the undergrowth.

Bodie turned to him. “Not going to be self-sufficient with rabbits, then?”

Doyle shook his head unhappily. “Never really killed anything before. Well, excepting flies. And a few spiders.” He ran a hand under his nose—and then winced. “Bloody hell. Nettles!” He shook his glove off, and scrubbed at his nose with his sleeve, wincing.

“Rub it with a dock leaf,” said Bodie. “They usually grow near nettles, and that’ll fix it.” He looked around. Ah, there. He strode over and plucked one. “Here.”

“Ta. How come—you know so much—anyway?” asked Doyle, between painful-sounding snuffles, rubbing at his nose with the new leaf.

“You learn things in the country—and the Army. Come on, mate. Get your things together and head home.” He gave Doyle a clap on the back and then headed back towards the golf game. Silly bloke, going to all that trouble to catch a rabbit and then letting it go free.

Silly, caring bloke, ever so much more interesting than the colonel or anyone else Bodie had met in years. He really needed someone to forage with him, someone who knew what he was doing, till Doyle learned the ropes.

Bodie caught up with his boss and brother-in-law. This time they were glaring at him. “Sorry,” said Bodie, catching up his bag and dropped club. And then because there had never really been any doubt, he turned to go. “Something’s come up. See you later, at work.”

“If you’re lucky,” rumbled his boss.

Bodie gave him a nod and a cheery smile. “Indeed. So very lucky!” He turned away with a light heart, knowing he would never again have to go on one of these golfing games. And if he didn’t end up staying at this job, that might be a relief too.

He jogged across the green grass.

“Come on, Ray,” he called. “I’ll show you how to pick nettles!”

 

 

 

<<<>>>

 


End file.
